


Clone Wars Mini Fics

by propheticfire



Category: Star Wars Legends: Republic Commando Series - Karen Traviss, Star Wars: Rebellion Era - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M, Other, VERY Short Stories, check the chapter summaries for applicable content warnings, mostly general audiences but some more mature themes, some longer ones
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-08-08 17:35:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 2,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16433834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/propheticfire/pseuds/propheticfire
Summary: A collection of short stories written for tumblr, that I didn't feel were all long enough to stand as their own works on AO3. Includes OCs, various ships, a variety of moods, some tumblr prompts. Searchable on my tumblr blog as well under the tag #tumblr mini fic





	1. A Heart That Understands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rex/Obi-Wan. Musing on what they might have seen in each other that would make them shippable. Some mentions of suicidal ideation and general war weariness.

Rex and Obi-Wan were merely acquainted when the war started. The Soldier and the General, each with their own role to play, and they did their duty and nothing more. But the war dragged on. And the fighting escalated. And nights turned into endless hell. And days turned bleak and numb. And pain and death and unnecessary risk engulfed Rex’s short life and twisted him into a shape he barely recognized. And loss after loss of not only battles but of direction and morals and purpose sapped the strength out of Obi-Wan’s already weary bones. And it’s hard to maintain a façade of leadership when inside all you want to do is crumble to dust and blow away.

And then it happened. After how many battles, after how many situations exactly like this one, fighting side by side, hoping that this won’t be the one that takes your life (but also secretly hoping it will), Rex looked at Obi-Wan. And Obi-Wan looked at Rex. And in that moment, suddenly, came the sure and deep and overwhelming sense that  _this is a heart that understands my heart._  And with it, a renewed hope that maybe this won’t be the battle that takes your life.

Because there’s a new role to play now. A new duty to follow. And there’s still some living left to be done.


	2. Tibanna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tibanna is sick of people questioning her gender.

“Wait, are you a girl or a boy?”  
  
Tibanna sheathed her knife and used her fist instead. Her knuckles met his cheek with a satisfying  _pmph!_ If it took a little longer to get the information out of him, then so be it. He wasn’t worth having to clean the blade.  
  
“I’m an  _ARC trooper_ , you scum. And  _I’ll_  be asking the questions here.”


	3. These TIV Pilots Are All Crazy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batshit/Sicko. Batshit ferries a squad of commandos on a mission and decides to mess with them a little.

“Forty-five seconds, troopers! Move your _shebse_ or you’ll be jumping to the airlock!”

Over the comm channel, he can hear the chatter. _“Would he really do that?” “He’d really do that.” “They don’t call him ‘Batshit’ for no reason.” “These TIV pilots are all crazy.” “Wonder if he knows that Sicko guy; he’s the_ real _crazy one.”_ He smiles to himself. Making commandos jittery never failed to amuse.

He meant what he said though.

“Twenty seconds! Set your bang-bangs or this chorus boy is dancing off the stage!”

_“Charges set! We’re coming back!”_

The commandos barrel back through the hatch in a clatter. Okay. So they made it back in time. But it’s _too easy_ to disconnect from the Sep ship _juuust_ before the airlock fully closes, making everything not strapped down––commandos included––go _whoosh_ ing toward the door.

He cackles as curses fill the cabin, and opens another comm channel. On the shared frequency. Just so they can all hear it.

“Sicko, babe? It’s Batshit. Babe, you’re gonna _love_ what these commando boys had to say about you.”


	4. He's Holding Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A clone trooper reassures his commander that he knows help is coming. Angst, implied character death.

He’s holding me.

He’s holding me, and I can hear him saying, _“It’s all right, it’s all right, casevac’s coming, we’re gonna get you out of here, you’re gonna be fine.”_ And I know he’s trying his best, but I’m not a fool.

I tell him, _“I know, I know Commander, I’m hanging in there, thank you Commander.”_ Because I’m trying my best. To make him believe that I believe. Because he needs more hope than I do. Because he has to know that he did everything he could, including making me feel better. Because I know that if he thinks he let me down, it’ll affect how he handles the next guy. And he can’t afford that.

So I let him think that I think help is coming. I let him think that I think I’m gonna make it. His hands are shaking. I pretend I don’t notice.

_“Thank you Commander, I know, I’m holding on, won’t let you down sir, won’t let you down, thank you, thank you…”_


	5. Blast, I Forgot!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tumblr prompt: "Send me a sentence, and I'll write the next five", with _blast, I forgot_ as the prompt and Rex/Obi-Wan as the pairing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In retrospect I should have cheated and made each line a "sentence". Oh well.

“Blast, I forgot!”

“What did you forget? Your hygiene kit? Underwear? Your lightsaber?”  
  
“I forgot to kiss you awake this morning; happy anniversary Rex.”


	6. Not A Civilized Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rex/Obi-Wan. Barely the beginning of a smut scene.

“You said blasters were uncivilized,” Rex purrs, dragging the tip of his pistol slowly down Obi-Wan’s bare chest. Obi-Wan shudders. He leans in closer, his lips brushing the shell of Obi-Wan’s ear, his voice a deep and velvet growl.

“I am not a civilized man.”


	7. Just A Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pong Krell has a very unsettling dream. Could be an AU, could be a prequel fic; up for interpretation, really. Draws directly from some of the events on Umbara.

“Turn around. Step toward the wall.”

The captain’s gaze is fierce as he draws his sidearm. There’s no use replying. With a roll of his eyes, he obliges the captain and turns toward the wall.

“On your knees,” the captain orders.

Behind him, he hears the slight thrum of the ray shield disengaging. A chuckle rumbles out of his throat. “You're in a position of power now. How does it feel?”

He hears the clone take a step toward him. “I said, _on your knees_.”

He obliges, but his voice is still rumbling, taunting. “It feels good, doesn't it? But I can sense your fear. You're shaking, aren't you? What are you waiting for? The Umbarans are getting closer.”

“I have to do this.” Even the clone’s voice is shaking.

“You can't do it, can you?” he pushes. “Eventually, you'll have to do the right thing, and––”

 

He bolts upright, gasping. The sensation of pain still blooms in his chest. His limbs tingle with the charged heat of adrenaline. For a moment he’s frozen, stuck between feeling oddly out of his body and at the same time _too present_ in it. He places a hand over his chest, letting the pressure ground him, feeling for injury. He’s fine. He’s okay. He’s fine. He takes another shaking breath.

_“General!”_

Footsteps quickly approach, and his commander kneels beside him, one hand hovering over the pistol at his belt. _“General Krell, sir, are you okay?”_ he asks, in the same hushed, urgent voice. _“Should I wake the rest of the men?”_

Krell shakes his head, as much to clear the lingering disorientation as to respond. “No, Vish. I’m all right. It was just a dream. Let them sleep.”

Vish places his other hand lightly on Krell’s upper shoulder. “Was it…one of the bad ones, sir?”

He presses his hand to his eyes briefly, reaching for the Force to steady him. It shifts, slides, oily and clouded in his senses. “I don’t know, Vish.” He feels Vish’s hand tighten slightly on his shoulder, and he looks up at him. “Don’t worry, Commander. We’re not in immediate danger. Go back to watch; I’ll join you shortly.”

Vish nods and straightens up, checking his pistols before striding off back into the darkness. Krell sits on the ground a while longer. The air of unease clings to his skin, settles as a bad taste in his mouth. Just a dream, it was just a dream. Just a dream.

As he stands up, he can’t shake the feeling in his gut that something, somewhere, some _when_ , is going terribly, terribly wrong.


	8. Motherless Sons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle, two Jedi find a woman burying clone trooper bodies.

They find her again, in the field not even an hour after battle, hacking away at the dusty ground with her little fold-up shovel. They confront her this time.

“Ma’am, your service to the Republic is commendable, but it isn’t safe for civilians here yet.”

She mutters something under her breath and keeps digging, and when they ask her to repeat it they get a guttural, _“I’m not doing this for the Republic.”_ They glance at each other warily. She could be a spy, then. She always seems to find their battles.

“And those sorry Separatists can kiss my wrinkled ass,” she continues, lobbing another small scoop of dirt onto the pile at their feet. It’s growing faster than they realized. They take a step back. “No respect…”

They glance at each other again. Not a spy then. Or maybe, still a spy, but trying to throw them off. “Ma’am, perhaps you’d like to bring your grievances to the Jedi Council? We could escort you—”

“How many sons have you buried?”

The question catches them off guard. As does the fire in her eyes as she straightens up from the now sizable hole she’s made in the earth to glare at them. The breeze tugs a strand of graying hair free from her braid, and she brushes it back from her face with an irritated sweep. Does she know the Jedi don’t have children? Younglings, certainly, back at the Temple, but no actual children—

“Three hundred fifty-two.”

There’s a pause. Again, her words have caught them off guard.

“Three hundred and fifty-two sons, I have put in the ground, with my own hands.” She looks down at the hole she’s standing in. “Three hundred fifty two of these.” She looks back up, casting her eyes across the battlefield, and they are compelled to follow her gaze over the broken and battered bodies littering the ground. “Motherless sons,” she says. “They are my sons now. Parentless children, they are my children now.”

There’s silence again, save for the far off noises of the clean-up team, combing the field for salvageable items. It had been a hard-fought victory, and they’d lost many resources and men.

“How many do you think are out there?”

Her voice breaks the silence, as though she’s been reading their minds once again. But they’d felt no Force signature off her, nothing to suggest she might have anything other than the basic connection to it that all living things have. Still, an unease hangs in the air. They watch as she sits on the edge of the hole, reaches out to the body of the trooper lying beside it. She gently takes his hand in hers.

“Three hundred fifty-three,” she whispers.


	9. Heroes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nips and Breaker stand by the caf dispenser and talk about their legacy. Kind of a prompt from [izzerslololol](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izzerslololol/pseuds/Izzerslololol), who suggested I write two clones having a discussion over caf when I couldn't think of anything I felt like writing. Slight nod to Clone Wars fic writers.

“Do you think anybody writes about us?”

Nips almost snorts caf out his nose. “You’ve been reading too many holonovels, Breaker.”

Breaker just shrugs and looks into his cup, picking at the crumbling edge of plastofoam along the rim. “There’s always stories about the big events. Yeah some of ‘em are embellished, but there’s always stories, about good and evil, and villains and heroes.”

“And I suppose you think we’re the heroes.” Nips takes another swig of his caf.

“That’s what I mean,” Breaker continues. “I don’t know. I thought we were. Some days I feel like I am. Doing my duty, saving the Republic from the tyranny of evil.” His voice crescendos a bit, like a dramatic holovid actor. “But then I wonder. The armies never get named in the stories; they’re just background characters. If they’re mentioned at all. Do you think that’s how we’ll be remembered?”

Nips sticks his cup back under the dispenser and fills it up again. “Right now I’m having trouble remembering why I promoted you, Lieutenant. It’s too early for philosophy.” But he smiles a little, to let Breaker know he’s joking. “I’m sure there’s hundreds of teenage civvies back on Coruscant seeing our Poster Boys plastered on the evening news and writing hell only knows what about us. You sure you wanna read that?”

Breaker smiles back, just a small one. “Maybe not. But I hope someone’s writing about us. I hope someone’s telling our stories.” He holds his cup to his chest for a moment before taking a sip.

Nips swallows his caf in a few large gulps, then tosses the plastofoam into the trash. “Well, live long enough and maybe you’ll find out. Finish your caf and suit up. We’ve got places to be. People to save.” He claps Breaker on the shoulder. “Heroes to forge.”

Breaker’s smile breaks out into a grin. “Yes Commander, right away sir.”


	10. Mending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trooper finds himself with a second chance. Slight death mention.

A trooper stationed in a village sees an old woman mending one of his _vod_ ’s blacks. “Why are you doing that?” he asks. “They’re not worth fixing; we have spares.”

“If it _can_ be mended, it _should_ be mended,” she says. “Nothing that still has purpose should be just thrown away.”

He walks away wondering why that bothers him.

 

Later, he wakes up in what looks like a crude medical facility. Everything hurts. He can barely move. He remembers an attack on the village, ripping pain, and lying in the mud. He remembers watching battle droids traipse through the field, walking right over his dead squadmates. He remembers them seeing him, pausing for a moment, and then continuing right on over the top of him. He remembers waiting to die.

The woman appears again and places a cool cloth on his forehead. He wants to ask her what he’s doing there. If the droids just left him, they must have seen he was a lost cause. He tries to speak, but his voice gets caught.

The old woman shushes him, stroking his cheek gently. “They thought you couldn’t be mended. But you can be. And you will be.” She smiles down at him. “You still have purpose, my child. You will not be thrown away.”


	11. Bodies In White Armor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A member of the Rebellion escapes a shootout with stormtroopers, and thinks about the past. Set in the Star Wars Rebels era. Slight canon-typical violence. Sort of angst.

I pull the trigger. Another body in white armor goes down. I pull the trigger again. Another. And another. I hear our leader yell for us to get the hell out of there, we’ve done all we can, we got the intel we need and we need to get back to the Rebellion and deliver it. I start running for the shuttle. I’m dodging blaster bolts, shooting blindly behind me to cover my ass as I run. Suddenly there’s another body in white armor in front of me. I freeze. Even as he’s raising his weapon, I freeze. I can’t bring myself to shoot.

It’s over in seconds. One of my team brings him down with a blaster bolt through the helmet. “Come on!” she yells. I know I should move. But I reach down to the body in white armor and rip off the helmet instead. It’s not a face I recognize. Somehow that brings me back to the present. I run again, barreling up the shuttle ramp as it’s lifting off the deck, skidding to a halt against one of the bulkheads. I sink to the floor, gasping for breath.

“Gotta keep up, old lady,” one of the team members teases. I give him a pointed look, but I don’t rebuke him. I know he’s just teasing because he’s rattled. The mission wasn’t supposed to go like this.

“Yeah, what happened back there?” asks the girl who saved me. “Why’d you freeze?”

I shake my head. “Must be getting old,” I say. I smile a little. That seems to put them all more at ease, and they chuckle a little at the joke.

Because what else am I supposed to say? In a way, they’re right. I’m not that old, but I’m older than them. Old enough to remember when the bodies in white armor all had the same face. Old enough to remember when the bodies in white armor meant help, and safety.

The armor is different now. Objectively, I know the difference. And I’ll keep doing my part, because the Rebellion needs all the help it can get. But my heart feels sick. Because when I see a sea of bodies in white armor, my first instinct isn’t to point my blaster at them and start shooting.

My first instinct is _friend._

That’s a hard thing to unlearn.


	12. A Pilot, After All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batshit/Sicko. Slight smutty text. Mention of canonical character death. Pilots live life a little differently, and Batshit more intensely than most.

He loves fast and he loves hard.

He is a pilot, after all.

He loves fast, and he loves hard, and some would say he loves loose too. Flying from encounter to encounter like targets in a dogfight, spending ammunition just as quickly. Skin burning from heat and friction. Soon enough it’ll burn from fuel and flames. He is a pilot, after all.

They call him Batshit, after the civvy expression. Batshit crazy. He doesn’t deny it. Actively encourages it, more like. And his reputation precedes him. Makes it easier to get the missions he wants, get the gear he needs. No one asks too many questions when they think you’re crazy enough. Keeps him out of trouble too, that reputation, for the same reason. Nobody messes with a man with that gleam in his eye.

‘Course, having a gleam in your eye means there’s always something hiding beneath the gleam. But as long as people don’t look too close, they won’t see it. Let them think it’s a gleam of manic frenzy. They’ll overlook the panic. They’ll overlook the void. That’s all that’s out there, in the blackness of space. Waiting for him, calling him, patient but persistent, biding its time until it can finally claim him like it claims all his pilot brothers.

Like it claimed Sicko.

He dances around it, flirting with it even, sticking a toe over the event horizon, only to snatch it back again. Two can play at this game. If the void is going to take him, he’ll be the most infuriating, taunting, insufferable bitch of a man right up until the very end. It’s what Sicko would have wanted. Live fast, die young. Another civvy expression, but one Sicko took to heart. They were all gonna die young anyway, right? And they had lived, and loved, as fast as they could. Faster than most. Sicko may be gone now, but Batshit keeps doing it. He’s only got one speed, and it breaks the sound barrier.

He is a pilot, after all.


End file.
